whose cold surface the storm was swirling in white snow-wraiths,
that, many, many years ago (not in this century), old Andrew
Moore-came upon the mother of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir.

In the North, every one who has heard of the Muir Pike--and who
has not?--has heard. of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir, every one who
has heard of the Shepherd's Trophy--and who has not?--knows
their fame. In that country of good dogs and jealous masters the
pride of place has long been held unchallenged. Whatever line may
claim to follow the Gray Dogs always lead the van. And there is a
saying in the land: "Faithfu' as the Moores and their tykes."

On the top dresser to the right of the fireplace in the kitchen of
Kenmuir lies the family Bible. At the end you will find a loose
sheet-- the pedigree of the Gray Dogs; at the beginning, pasted on
the inside, an almost similar œheet, long since yellow with age--the
family register of the Moores of Kenmuir.

Running your eye down the loose leaf, once, twice, and again it
will be caught by a small red cross beneath a name, and under the
cross the one word "Cup." Lastly, opposite the name of Rex son of
Rally, are two of those proud, tell-tale marks. The cup referred to
is the renowned Dale Cup--Champion Challenge Dale Cup, open
to the world. Had Rex won it but once again the Shepherds'
Trophy, which many men have lived to win, and died still striving
after, would have come to rest forever in the little gray house
below the Pike.

It was not to be, however. Comparing the two sheets, you read
beneath the dog's name a date and a pathetic legend; and on the